Long Division
by end1essly
Summary: Hermione always viewed her life as a difficult equation. She certainly hadn't considered a love triangle would ever fit into her safe, logical world. But who will she choose? ONESHOT. Hermione/Draco. Hermione/Harry. Not threesome. AU.


**Disclaimer: You know the drill…I don't own anything related to the Harry Potter franchise that belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is simply a story constructed out of what she has written, and I receive no recognition or profit whatsoever. I also was listening to Death Cab for Cutie as I was writing this & got the name of this one-shot from their song of the same name, so kudos to them.  
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**I am not very pleased with this, but figure I should get it out of my head anyhow. Hope you guys like. THIS IS A ONE-SHOT, sorry for any confusion.  
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**p.s. As mentioned on my profile, I am looking for a lovely beta. Inquire through PM, please:)**

Long Division

Hermione Granger was no exquisite creature: her hair fell around her face in gentle brown curls, her eyes _so ordinary,_ her figure slight, shapeless and small. How was it then, that she found herself in an elaborate love triangle complete with melodrama worthy of the most flowery romance novel? She sat under a tree that was close to the Forbidden Forest, the late spring sun sinking beyond far off mountains, causing a multitude of snogging couples to congregate around the lake. But Hermione was alone in her thoughts, knees tucked neatly to chest, arms lying on either side, clutching ripe pieces of fruit. In her right hand lay an apple of deepest red, the type that the little schoolgirl had brought ages ago to her primary school teacher. A tart green apple occupied the left, and Hermione's gaze traveled from apple to apple and then drifted skyward, leaning against the tree as her eyelids gently closed.

It had been a trying year, her _last year_, the days filled with endless homework, Quidditch games and Hogsmeade visits, Gryffindor Tower rowdiness and being chased by Peeves with a pile of Kneazle dung. Adding that all up with the fact that she was Head Girl resulted in a very large sum, one that a girl of lesser diligence would barely be able to handle. However, she hadn't anticipated adding such foolishness as Love into the equation; Indeed, one of her favorite fantasies involved Ron finally coming to his senses after she had succeeded as Head of the Ministry's Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, proposing and settling down with a bundle of children years later. But during school? Bother!

But now that she was in the thick of things, she couldn't imagine life without her most beloved…_friends. _Parvati and Lavender occasionally teased Hermione about a lack of a paramour, it was their affectionate way, but there were times in which Hermione just wanted to come clean, admit that indeed she had a gentlemen caller, not one but two, two of the most good-looking young men in their year. But then again, she had a reputation to uphold; as a serious, responsible member of society, a young woman with promise, a girl that couldn't be dragged down by the likes of a scandalous affair involving ONE _Harry Potter _and (OF ALL PEOPLE) _Draco Malfoy._

As guilty as she felt, she couldn't say no. How could a warm-blooded female say no to the sixteen-foot love letter Draco had slipped into her book bag one crisp November morning. How could such a sexually-deprived girl say no when Harry slipped into her Head dormitory in the middle of the night, sucking on that delicious spot on her collarbone?

It was quite funny how it had all come about, to be sure, the exact opposite of what she had expected. After losing her virginity to George Weasley in her fifth year, a humiliating, painful self-defeating debacle, Hermione had sworn off men, tired of pining years after Ron only to jilted for such airheaded prissies as Fleur Delacour and Lavender Brown. It was quite pathetic of her, soaking alone in the enormous Heads bathroom while her fellow Head Theodore Nott made love to his girlfriend Daphne Greengrass, because the moans were less audible there than in her bedroom.

Hogwarts hailed Hermione as the Queen of all that was uncorrupted, ironically nicknamed "Virgin Gryffindor Princess" by the slimy Slytherin underclassmen who had a knack for following her as she traveled from class to class, raining veiled insults at her no-nonsense form. However, November proved to change everything. Hermione could have kicked herself; here she was, the top Arithmancy student at the school, and the symbolism of the number eleven had completely flown under what she viewed as her infallible defenses.

_Eleven,_ read her copy of "Numerology and Gramatica", _is the combination of two opposite numbers on the traditional number scale; one and ten. Therefore, the number eleven has been viewed as a tumultuous clash of opposites. In regards to November, the eleventh month of the year, conflicting events may occur to even the most cautious Witch or Wizard. One must be open to possible life-changing events._

The entry sounded like one of Lavender's pathetic dream journals, but when Hermione found her carefully constructed, logical life completely ripped apart, it was ironic to see that the warning had been underneath her nose the entire time. Now here she was underneath a tree, brooding like Moaning Myrtle! Merlin's Beard! Hermione opened her eyes and sat up, ramrod straight, and peered closely at the fruit she had brought to her place of solace.

Harry was her red apple, the dependable friend that had suddenly turned into much, much more. Hermione had always admired Harry's courage, his determination in the most bleak of odds, his passionate feelings that radiated amongst everyone who knew him. Tragedy and strife had marred his life, and it seemed that the misery would never reach an end: They researched Horcruxes during the week and snuck out of the castle when they could, but the search's toll was becoming too much for the young man who had to grow up much too fast. Hermione had noticed the radical change in Harry's physical appearance that fall: his eyes were sunken and listless from lack of sleep, his already slender frame reduced to a moving sack of bones and tendons, his participation in class minimal at best. She had been afraid that she was losing her best friend to a relentless enemy, a man not fraught with the pressures of a teenage male, and despite her and Ron's inquiries, Harry had retreated further into himself.

It was a cold night when the two of them huddled together in the Head common room, shuffling through an immense stack of books, desperately hoping that clues to defeating Voldemort would magically appear in the ancient words of others. Harry had been silent the entire evening, the dark shadows lining his eyes further pronounced by the flicking firelight. She was devoted to this quest for his sake, for she knew without her, he would lack the motivation to continue in such dark days. He would become _nothing._ The two had seemed more intimate in those months, sitting next to one another at mealtimes, the taller boy enclosing Hermione in silent, lengthy embraces. She had thought it was for his comfort, a feeble attempt to fill the hole that was his heart, but she quickly realized that holding him was never never enough.

She was startled from her research when Harry slammed his book shut, his emerald eyes frozen in an intense gaze. Hermione fought the need to blush under his stare, trying desperately to decode why her dearest friend would have something as dangerous as _need_ when he looked at her. She felt a chill as Harry's fingers grazed her cheek, and his face came closer, closer, so much closer…

What happened next she remembered in tiny pieces, a patchwork quilt of their first night together threaded together in her mind: the pain in her heel when he dragged her into her bedroom, jarring it against the staircase, the heat that seared her body when his lips caressed her thigh, the thick fields of his hair feeling like wheat as she wound her fingers through it, the way he held her afterwards, her head tucked into his chest as he lazily drew circles on her sweaty back. When she awoke alone the next morning it was with the understanding left unsaid; That Harry loved her in a dimension beyond labels, and that she loved him too, with a love that sustained him despite the overwhelming pain, a love borne of silence. Indeed, starting with that night, he stopped speaking altogether, sending Ron into near hysterics. Hermione knew that she was losing her best friend, and the only way he communicated his emotions was through their sharing of a bed, his strangled sobs, her soft sighs. She would sometimes squeeze his hand during Charms, but otherwise he was a shell, a ghost that dreamily went through the motions, a young man barely conscious of reality. It broke her heart to see him fade, and could only hope that his love for her would keep him alive.

It was fate that she received Draco Malfoy as a Potions partner, a destiny that would prove bizarre as she became inexplicably bound to the elusive blond, all rationality tossed to the wind. As his nemesis faded into nothingness, Draco became a force of fire, his rage echoing off the corridor walls, dissatisfied with friends and foes alike. Lucius had been captured and kissed in the months leading up to their seventh year, and it seemed the younger Malfoy had lost all his restraint, the careful façade making way to the passion that had always laid deep in his soul. Hermione had been afraid of him since their fifth year, when his insults had taken an unexpected turn, no longer pointing at her unfortunate bloodline. And the creepy crawly feel of discontent during mealtimes: She still couldn't fathom, to this day, how he managed to stare undetected at her so often.

Their first touch had been electric, an innocent brush against his palm as she leaned over their cauldron, resulting in a gasp and a stagger from the former Prince of Darkness. Imagine the girl's surprise when she found herself sitting at an empty table, the youngest Malfoy sweeping out of the dungeon without a second glance, further confirming that Hermione's life had never, and would never, lie within bounds of what was considered normalcy. _Her darling fruit of green, how different he was…_

Her apprehension when the bell rang signaling the beginning of Slughorn's rambling was suffocating, threatening to take her away, her heart sinking further with every step the blond took towards their table. That was the day she found the elegantly wrapped scroll nestled in her Ancient Runes text, lines and lines describing his tormenting intoxication over the years, the bittersweet control she had unknowingly held him under day after day, and how abuse from the Dark Side had made physical contact impossible, especially her gentle touch. And so Hermione fell down yet another bizarre spiral, as her secret infatuation coupled with curiosity, and she made love with Draco over and over and over and over with written and spoken words. She may have found tangible comfort in the arms of the Boy Who Lived, but nothing was more forbiddingly tantalizing then hearing Draco describe his twisted ardor for her body, intellect and soul, that she nearly forgot her promise to keep her distance, pretend that nothing peculiar was indeed brewing beneath the surface of the popular Gryffindor-Slytherin animosity.

Oh, how she loved Draco Abraxas Malfoy, and he loved her, in his tormented passionate manner that made her breath hitch in her swollen throat at the mere sight of silver. Not that his campaign of torture had ended: Indeed, Neville and Ron were annihilated daily by his verbose wit, the sinister smile, his skill with a wand that landed him a close second in marks to his beloved Gryffindor. She could not imagine life without his split personality, the way he flipped his platinum blond mane over his eyes, making every female within a three kilometer radius sigh in contentment, his eloquent declarations of love pressed carefully into her palm when they passed in the corridor.

O! How she was ripped apart, sitting under her beloved oak tree, a heart truly divided by the love for two, both completely different but yet elementally the same. Could she have it all, would the physical love of Harry combined with the words of Draco's adoration equal a very satisfied young female? She feared that the words would never tumble out of Harry's mouth, just as she would never feel the featherlike caress of Draco's lips on her cheekbone. Must she be incomplete, without the sanity she had once taken for granted?

A shy rustling came from a nearby bush, and the solid frame of Draco Malfoy came into view, his usually tamed coiffure mussed, his silver eyes wide with discernible emotion. She rose, waiting for his deep baritone to sink into her senses, her mind drifting back to Harry, who was no doubt still enclosed in the pile of blankets she had left him in, his mind thick with dreams and wonderings.

"Hermione," came her Slytherin's plea, "It's…It's time for me to leave. I told you once before that it was inevitable, that he would come for me, the sins of the father placed upon the son. You told me when this began that wherever I would go, you would follow, but I couldn't do that to you, my love." He tentatively reached out and grasped her chin, although the effort was evidently painful on his angular facial features. "My heart belongs in your gentle hands, in however little I have left in my wretched existence. This is my farewell, my dedication, my oath to the one who saw past my contrived lies. You, my darling."

Hermione looked into his eyes and saw the hurt, such agony shared by her two loves. She couldn't possibly leave Harry to waste away, but letting Draco to be at the mercy of bloodthirsty minions was equally intolerable. How could she live with only one half of her life's equation? She'd left rationality behind long ago, destined to live a life apart from the shell of a simple bookworm...

She took a deep breath, looked confidently into Draco's eyes, and made a choice.


End file.
